of love.

it feels upon feel - at almost all of time! as if the wonder, the splendour of pure individuation is naught but a curse, a horror of which to struggle is the only excuse.

how be this? how be it that even with the depth of sorry sadness, with the abuse of all poesy and metaphor, one cannot escape the ugliness of ones being one?

well, it is but a little too easy to say that such is because one is ugly.

the argument falls, and the words decay, because there is a greater, as there is in all.

except in such! and such is the word upon words, the greatest and most significant creator of sadness that ever was.

god and thought and word are empty in the face of love. and yet love, in wisdom, has encapsulated all of these - and all of the many and many more.

there is nothing without thee, just as there is no occasion for nothingness - all that is, is not only is, all that is is permeated and simultaneously alienated by love! all yes and no, all such and be, all emptiness and horror, all then and now, all of thee and thou.

and yet, let it not be said, as many have, such a dispicably empty diatribe such as (ugh) god is love. or, worse, all is love.

love is a self-centered, nihilistic cunt. love permeates as being permeates - and yet, the many and varying forces at work in our disgusting universe play against our little friend. and life is oft robbed of such. and being is oft robbed of such! and emptiness, and sadness, are even robbed of such! and it is only, and, i mean, only, with the greatest of all of all efforts that one comes to be anywhere near such suchness.

but what else are we here to do, if not to love?